After the Fact
by L.M.Lewis
Summary: Q.E.D.


Disclaimer: These are not my characters and I make no profit from them.

Thanks, Owl and Cheri, as always.

**Author's Note: **This third missing scene from the episode "You Would Cry, Too, If It Happened to You" follows on after the stories "Scouting the Opposition" and "It Turns On a Dime", and takes place after the arrests of Jack Fish and his half-wit cat's paws, McCormick's erstwhile friends Mickey Noonan and Eddie Dyson.

**After the Fact**

by L.M. Lewis

"So," Frank Harper said, "it's felony theft for Mark's old buddies, and the DA is still hammering out the list for Fish. Obviously we want something more than receiving stolen goods—but it looks like they even paid some rent on that empty house they were using.

"The boys," he added, "being fresh from the farm, they're looking at some extensions on their original stays, plus whatever they're handing out for felonious stupidity these days."

The lieutenant looked up from the file on his desk. Maybe he'd been hoping for a cheering smile of encouragement from the victim. If so, he was disappointed. Hardcastle's face remained impassive.

Mark, sitting next to him, felt ill at ease. It was mostly at the mention of "his buddies", though the whole topic of the recent criminal spree at Gull's Way was bad enough. Hardcastle's insistence, this morning, of another visit to the station to ride herd on things struck him as needlessly interfering. He hadn't tried to talk him out of it, though, being mostly on his best behavior for having let the theft happen in the first place.

He had said, over breakfast, just once and very carefully, "Seems like Frank has it under control."

And the judge had snapped back, "And you're lucky he's the guy in charge of the investigation, too, kiddo."

Mark didn't have to ask why that was so. He was very aware that his own role (purely as patsy, he thought with chagrin) was being downplayed as much as possible in the police reports. A casual reader of those might have been excused if he thought Gull's Way had been left unattended that day, and Mark had been entirely surprised to find four men playing poker in his accommodations.

He had a suspicion that someone (Frank? Or the judge himself?) had had a word or two with Mickey and Eddie on the side, emphasizing the unprofitability of trying to rope Mark any further into this. Whatever had happened, so far there hadn't been so much as a ripple on the dark, still pool in which dwelled the vengeful and many-tentacled parole board, though it looked certain that a tentacle or two would be snatching Mick and Eddie back into the deep fairly soon.

"I wanna see 'em."

Mark jerked a bit at the abruptness of the judge's request. Even Frank looked surprised, and he must have heard Hardcastle's demands across that same desk a hundred times before.

"Now, Milt," the lieutenant said placatingly, "you really think that's such a good idea? They're a slam-dunk. You go stirring things up—all it can do it give their PD something to peddle on appeal."

"You want those bozos, or do you want Fish?" Hardcastle said stubbornly. It was obvious who _he_ wanted. "Besides, you think I don't know how to handle witnesses?"

So now it was 'witnesses'. Mark frowned. He didn't have any doubt that Hardcase was a whiz with witnesses; he'd scared the socks off Mickey a couple days back, and Mickey didn't scare all that easy, mostly because he usually wasn't smart enough to see long-range consequences, but he did have a grasp of the judge's sort of _immediate_ consequences.

Frank was starting to look intrigued. "Okay," he finally said, standing and ushering his guests to the door, "but be careful, will ya?" and it was obvious that it wasn't the judge's health and well-being that he was concerned about in this instance.

00000

Down they went, to the interview room that Frank had phoned ahead for. Per the judge's instructions, Mickey Noonan alone had been made available and he didn't look all that surprised to see Hardcase again. Mark swallowed once and stepped over the threshold to join them, getting a flicker of a sneer from Noonan.

It didn't matter, Mark assured himself. Patsy though _he_ might be, his 'old buddy' was something far worse.

The judge seemed to ignore the brief interplay. Maybe it hadn't even registered for him, though Hardcastle didn't miss much. But on this occasion he merely sat down at the table across from Mickey, no glowering, no position of intimidation. Mark kept to his feet, leaning against the nearest wall, and Frank, not much to Mark's surprise, did the same.

"Just so you understand," Hardcastle said, with a surprising degree of equanimity, "you don't have to talk to me. I'm not a cop or anything. I just thought you oughta know what's been going down."

Mickey's now-glum expression suggested he did. No doubt an experienced penal mathematician such as he had already toted things up. But he said nothing.

"Yeah," the judge sighed, as though he'd seen it all a thousand times before—which he had—and it was never pretty. "It's gonna be a long stay . . . unless you start doing yourself some favors."

Noonan sat back and shot another glance at Mark, as if to show him how this sort of thing is done.

"Not a chance," he said, not quite sneeringly, "I ain't no snitch."

He might just as well have added 'like some people I know'. The implication was there, at any rate, and this time the judge seemed to pick up on it. Of course, not being a regular denizen of The System, and never having acknowledged the reality of things in it, Hardcastle brushed it all away with a wave of his hand.

"Come on now, Mick, you can't very well come into a guy's home on false pretenses, make a mess of the place, screw with his set-up, and expect him to send you a thank you note, can ya?" Hardcastle said bluffly.

Mark frowned slightly, still too busy trying to parse that one out to notice what effect it had had on Noonan. He finally had to squash a small smile, having concluded that both 'guy' and 'home' belonged to him.

But Hardcastle wasn't waiting for anyone to catch up. He'd plowed ahead with, "I'm not talking about your friend Eddie, except maybe he's in line for the same offer I'm making you." He sat back, looking relaxed.

"We'll just have to see who's smarter," he mused, half to himself.

"Nah," he finally drawled, "it's not even about Fish, though you probably ought to know he's not using a PD—hired himself a fancy criminal law firm to protect _his_ interests, I hear. And all _he's_ looking at is receiving a couple stolen file cabinets with some papers in them. Might be a misdemeanor." The judge managed to sound a tad indignant at the unfairness of this disparity in charges and then, to rub it in, "The guy's off parole, ya know."

Mickey was looking put out by these announcements, but still stubborn.

Hardcastle shrugged, as if the next part was nothing, a little bit of 'i' dotting—a 't' that needed crossing. "It's that guy, the one you brought along to the poker game."

Mickey sat silent.

"Not 'Frank'," Hardcastle said complacently. "We know about him."

Mark's mouth set grimmer. Hardcastle didn't know a damn thing about the third guy, though he was making it look as though he had a reliable source standing over against the wall.

But Noonan was merely puzzled now. The judge had him hooked and he finally broke down and asked, "Then who the hell _do _you mean?"

"The guy you didn't know—the one Fish suggested you bring."

"Just a fourth," Mickey sputtered. In truth, there was no use denying another person had been there. "He didn't know nothin' about nothin'. I don't even know the guy's name."

"Come on, Mick," the judge chided. "You told the lieutenant that you only decided to rob the place on the spur of the moment—just on account of the opportunity, and McCormick here pissing you off, telling you to 'get the mess out of there'. Just a joke that got out of hand, right? So now you're telling me you don't know the name of the guy who came along and was sitting next to you at the poker table?"

Mickey looked pale. Then he muttered, sullenly, "I guess he had a name. Mighta been 'Sal'. I didn't know him real well."

"'Cause you'd never seen him before that morning? You might want to think about that one real careful before you answer, Mickey."

There was something in Hardcastle's voice, a sound of unsheathed steel, just a hint of a gleam showing, with the promise of far more still hidden.

"No," Mickey said warily, and it wasn't immediately apparent if this was merely a reinforcement of his earlier refusal or an answer to the question.

Hardcastle nodded as though it were understood—an answer, and a sign of further cooperation.

"That's good," he said quietly. "Real good." He turned his head to address Frank. "Might be an alias, but I'm guessing if it is, it'll be one he's used before. You know how it is with these guys—the ones who are willing to work in broad daylight anyway—they _like_ getting credit; it's good for business."

"Salvatore?" Frank stared at him with what looked like the dawn of understanding as to the shape of what was going on.

"And he'll be out-of-town talent," the judge continued on, "but probably not too far out of town—Las Vegas'd be my guess. It's not like Fish had a lot of time to put this together."

"'Talent'?" Mark muttered.

"Talent," the judge echoed, grimly. "You were a couple seconds away from getting an offer you couldn't refuse, only my guess is you wouldn't have found out about the 'no-refusal' part until after you'd said 'Hell no.'"

Mark stared at him for a second, feeling his face go pale in recollection of the sequence of events. Then his gaze tracked over to Mickey, who was sitting there, gaping.

"Nah," his old buddy said, "_nah_ . . . it wasn't nothing like _that_, Skid."

"That's 'cause it never dawned on you that he'd _say_ 'Hell no'," Hardcastle pointed out practically. "You think Fish didn't have a contingency plan; I mean, besides my getting bored with the luau music and flying back stand-by that morning?" He shook his head in disgust. "Guess you don't know Jack."

00000

After that there was a series of further developments, beginning with Frank's rapid departure to pull a likely set of candidates—not just Salvatores, but a couple of Tonys, one Rudolf, and a decent enough set of the unlikely to make for a convincing photo line-up.

Mickey was a changed man, under Mark's persistently judgmental stare and the certain knowledge that he'd been set up by Fish to take the rap—first degree homicide in the commission of a felony. It might have been a combination of Hardcastle's apparent omniscience and his persistent interest that also convinced Noonan that he never would have gotten away with it—not that he'd made any great plans to do so, having had no idea what was really going down.

_Another patsy for progress._ Mark was over his own first shock enough to observe, with some satisfaction, what it looked like from the outside: Hardcastle now being alternately stern and coaxing, reassuring and insistent.

Mickey eventually fingered one of the photos, accompanied by an even more convincing incidental observation. The guy had had a small scar on the back of his left hand—looked like a couple of old burns, cigarette tip sized, clustered in one spot. Mickey had noticed it, staring at the man's hand, contemplating what cards he might have been holding.

Frank checked the accompanying description and was seen to smile covertly, like a guy with his own full house—aces over jacks.

From there it was a small step to get the now-committed Noonan to admit that Jack Fish had foisted the newcomer on them, insisting they needed another guy to sell the idea that they had a real poker game in search of a place to happen. He even volunteered that Fish had said, several times, that all their bases were covered and McCormick would be "no trouble at all". Mickey, against all common logic, insisted that he thought that meant Mark had the inside track on what was going down and would cooperate.

After that he was dismissed back to his cell and Eddie got the full-bore treatment. If anything, he was faster to capitulate than his co-conspirator had been.

"You make this look easy," Frank said to the judge out in the hallway as they waited for statements to get typed and signed.

The judge shrugged. To Mark, easy or not, the man looked tired, though still damned determined.

00000

By the time it was all finished, and the two of them walked out of the station, twilight was well underway. Mark looked around, blinking in surprise. It had been a while since he'd noticed a clock, so riveted had he been by the afternoon's events. No wonder Hardcastle had looked tired. He'd been pushing, leading, tugging all the pieces into position for hours now.

He glanced at the judge as they reached the truck. "I'll drive," he said, crossing to that side and rooting out his set of keys before there could be an objection.

There was none. Maybe a grunt as the older man opened the passenger door and climbed in, easing into the seat with a sigh.

Driving was a nice, safe activity, Mark had decided. Well, sometimes, anyway. Now, for example, with him looking straight ahead, carefully not frowning as he tried to figure out what it all meant.

He was pretty sure that he and the judge had been working with the same information. He might not have known Jack Fish quite as well, but Hardcastle hadn't been in the room with a hit man—and yet had convincingly demonstrated not only that he'd existed, but also who he was and who had hired him.

"Thanks," Mark finally said. It seemed pretty inadequate.

"What, for calling you from the airport?" the judge said a little testily. "That was a fluke."

"Maybe," Mark said, though he preferred to believe in angels of some sort—even angels in parrot shirts if necessary. "But, anyway, not just that. Thanks for, um, letting me know . . . sort of. And," he gestured toward the police station, now in the rear-view mirror as he prepared to merge onto the road, "for all that—for seeing it through."

"It'll help nail Fish, and Fish needs to be nailed," Hardcastle grumped. Then he turned slightly. Mark could see it out of the corner of his eye; he was being stared at intently.

"You get it now, don'tcha? When I say don't do anything stupid?"

Mark swallowed hard and nodded once.

Hardcastle faced forward again and said, "_Good_," with some satisfaction, as though that had been the whole point of the afternoon's exercise. "Can't always expect to be saved by the bell like that. Jeez, and you never woulda seen it coming."

"No," Mark said quietly, more to himself than to his companion, "never in a million years."


End file.
